I don't know how to grieve in any sort of behaved manner. Instead, I take forever getting dressed because I want to be respectful of the death of a man I loved, but I also want to be bright, a beacon of youth and hope and everything Muzzy stood for. Both of these notions are ridiculous and dramatic but when have I ever been anything but? I wore
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Cunt, by Inga Muscio
White Oleander, by Janet Fitch
Sonnets from the Portuguese, by E.B. Browning
Lamb, by Christopher Moore
Sense and Sensibility, by Jane Austen
The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver
Davita's Harp, by Chaim Potok
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, by Ken Kesey
The Alchemist, by Paulo Colho
A Ring of Endless Light, by Madeleine L'Engle
The Secret Life of Bees, by Sue Monk Kidd
Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging, by Louise Rennison
Phantom of the Opera, by Gaston Leroux
Falling Up, by Shel Silverstein
There are a thousand others, but I know you've read them. In fact, you've probably read a good number of these, as well, but there are all lovely in their own way.
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on the road/satori in paris/visions of cody/haikus- jack kerouac (my husband)
white angel (short story)-michael cunningham- i REALLY reccomend this one, i read it two summers ago for a writing program i took at emerson, and i STILL love it.
anything by eliot, but the lovesong of j. alfred prufrock in particular
collected letters- neal cassady (his letters, that is.)
let me know what you think if you get around/have already gotten around to any of the above.
chin up, lady.
-kate
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